No Fables

Last weekend bordered on amazing, built from the motivation that I could certainly try to have more fun than Ray Argyle. In order to make my wishes come to vivid fruition, I enlisted the candid insights of Holly Paige. I was in rare form, cheering the Lakers while adorned in finagled boa and The Hat’s lost hat.

Holly, a sight for sore eyes since her bold move to D.C., confided in me that the many ills of the world which pollute psyches are related to not having fun, or something like that. I don't really recall any context because, of course, around that time I became blackout drunk. That was the same evening The Wolf finally showed me how he really felt about my energetic presidential campaign.

I was unhindered in pushing boundaries, so I took my first attempt of making a cheers while taking a photo.

I think blackout drunk never felt better. Earlier in the night I was with Roxie sporting wide red eyes.

We reminisced about the glory we’ve shared over the years, even managing to finally get a good laugh about one of the worst nights ever, the debacle at L.A.X., the time when all futures were determined at random with spite.

Peacock, who has since gone into hiding, was my last picture taken inside the venue, which also assisted the security detail in identifying me moments later.

As an avid fan of aimless prancing, ten minutes of mixing it up on the dance floor is far from satisfying.

We never made it out to see Hyper Crush, choosing instead to be faced with ludicrous cab debauchery, mainly their right to refuse service to anyone. The peanut gallery of photographers found humor in what was otherwise a rather dire stamp on an evening filled with untapped potential.

While some haters can find amusement in another group's peril, that night proved, once again, that some forms of attempted Bashing can fail miserably. Upon contemplating the peaks and valleys of which fun can often hinge on, I called in support from Orange County in the form of Sylvester Cunningham, whose affinity for Captain Morgan instantly catapulted him into the upper echelon of Bashing lore.

Known to all close friends as Sly, he’s waged battles on many fronts, proudly representing what’s in all our best interests. Like most Bashers celebrated as a part of The Inner Circle, he seems to have his way with the ladies.

I was graced with his acquaintance through my lovely First Lady Scarlett O’Connell.

Apart from being a member of the American Society for Enology and Viticulture, Sly is a founding father of the Chawhee Party Klan, a group of Bashers whose influence has spread cancerously throughout the United States. Like true warriors, we’ve been to Del’s Saloon for breakfast in the past.

That particular day we went to Venice Beach to marvel at the ridiculous spectacle known as professional wrestling, a "sport" lunatics commonly believe to be real.

Since I was going to Del's Saloon for two nights in a row, I wanted to roll incognito to our meeting, low key, not to be noticed by anyone in particular, just simply blending in.

I didn’t expect that our reunion would also feature the elusive Dante, a sighting that initially scared the bejesus out of Amaury Guerrero.

The trouble caused from the cameo couldn’t be more disturbing. My already high level of drinking ability instantly became elevated while my speech became more incoherent than normal. Thankfully, Scarlett was there to temper the proceedings, although not very much.

Adding insult to injury, Priscilla Centinela, with her Long Island iced teas, egged us on to Bash harder.

Glasses were raised in triumph, for it’s a rarity that we managed to all be in the same room together.

The Bashers were justly reunited, all in the name of fun, although Ray still laughs at all of us. The next day I felt like a million dollars.

Top 28 Albums of 2008

Another great year of music, a testament to the violent fluctuations within the top ten. It was incredibly tough to make a list, but these all remain in heavy rotation.

#1 Girl Talk, Feed the Animals
#2 Fleet Foxes, Fleet Foxes
#3 Portishead, Third
#4 Danny!, And I Love H.E.R.
#5 TV on the Radio, Dear Science
#6 Santogold, Santogold
#7 Beck, Modern Guilt
#8 Ratatat, LP3
#9 AC/DC, Black Ice
#10 The Bug, London Zoo
#11 Robyn, Robyn
#12 Neon Neon, Stainless Style
#13 Little Jackie, The Stoop
#14 MGMT, Oracular Spectacular
#15 Arctic Monkeys, Favourite Worst Nightmare

Honorable mentions:

-Adele, 19
-Al Green, Lay It Down
-Deerhunter, Microcastle
-Hyper Crush, The Arcade
-Kaiser Chiefs, Off With Their Heads
-Kings of Leon, Only By Night
-Lupe Fiasco, The Cool
-Lykki Li, Youth Novels
-M83, Saturdays=Youth
-Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds, Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!
-Q-Tip, The Renaissance
-Racontours, Consolers of the Lonely
-Starf**ker, Starf**ker

I Have More Fun Than You

Throughout my extensive travels exploring the depths of humanity and its mysterious origins, I happily reunited with avant-guard musician Ray Argyle, who constantly confides that he has more fun than me.

“I have more fun than you,” he always tells me as matter of fact. I should come to accept it.

Apart from tours to remote island locations for video shoots, Ray recently went to some art show Bash in downtown with hipsters and music till dawn with Serena.

They both enjoyed the spontaneous art demonstrations.

The work done over time was impressive. Motivated artists were around just about every corner, concentrating on their original creations while lost from society at large.

People were tripping out on Aphex Twin, so he saw some weird things that night.

He was bored with a high powered camera, so he started making his own spontaneous art digitally.

His photography skills brought much rejoice from revelers like Serena. Even though she’s a good friend, he told her that if they ever did anything, like mess around, he wouldn’t be against it, although maybe it was the scenery and the booze talking.

Ray frequents high end clubs in Hollywood, the kind that stock talentless acts for the sake of the lowest common denominator. Unlike many Los Angeles musicians, he supports many local singers, like this particular floozy.

At least he never has to buy his own $10 drink. Even Harper O’Hara is guilty of buying him Jager bombs over games of pool at Del’s Saloon.

She once said that the only reason to have a boyfriend is to secure consistent sexual favors. Rumor has it she moved to Vancouver. She’ll certainly miss Ray's five dogs, all of whom can sit outside his local pizzeria without moving from their territorial spot.

The pack, which consists of Leo, Ginger, Bob, Barney, and Buster from left to right, brings excitement to his every waking day, especially the way they take care of each other in his absence. Whenever Ray leaves town with the band, his neighbor Ambrosia takes care of the mangy mongrels. She often comes over for four in the morning Guitar Hero.

The simple fact is he thrusts himself onto the scene fearless, sort of like how The Hat likes jumping off diving boards dry and hatless.

Considering Ray's many interests, like writing poetry, he enjoys long walks on the beach, often with the loveliest of the lovelies looking right back.

I think he laughs at all of us.

Scorched Earth Theory

Sadly, I lost my bid for President of the United States. Also, my beloved Oakland Raiders are failing miserably as a team and an organization.

Thankfully, I remain in good spirits with a sharpened shank, ready to bury it in dimwits who cross the line with naively crafted insults. Above all, I still manage to throw around the occasional joke, yet at this point all the laughter seems merciful. Roxie tells me I need to relax.

But how can I relax, knowing that our country is on an unpredictable path that leads to... what exactly? To cheer me up, Roxie recently trimmed my mop of hair, and she definitely would’ve made me look great when meeting foreign dignitaries. Still stuck in the groove of campaigning, I met with Ronda, who would’ve been my nominee for Secretary of the Treasury. A graduate of Northwestern, she has studied the intricacies of our fragile economy, recently telling soon to retire Tom Florence of Jasper, Indiana, “If you’re going to cash in your 401K, I suggest investing in cigarettes and alcohol.”

Of course, she probably wouldn’t have made it through the confirmation process, especially since this particular photo leaked to the mass media three weeks ago:

Most people could never excuse such an action, clinging to a belief system outdated by modern standards. Some people are just batty. During the final stretch of my campaign, I horrifically faced a brush with death I wish on no one. While campaigning in Holmby Hills, an irate banshee began hurling barbs with bitterness, a reaction worthy of an extended stay at the local rubber room. I escaped with my life, as did Scarlett O’Connell, and my trail of fire left from exhaust led to heavenly results. My First Lady recovered well from the ensuing drama.

Sebastian Santiago, who would’ve been my nominee for Secretary of the Interior, suggested that all voters should be required to write in the name of who they want for president. If a person can’t write legibly or at all, then how can you say they have "keen faculties or sound mind?"

A scraggly monkey can fill in a circle. I was noticeably brokenhearted by the outcome of the election, so he supportively reminded me of all the meaningful endorsements I received during the tough campaign. Nobody will ever forget when I gained the endorsement of the National Gothic Movement.

They are a joyous people, and they were very optimistic about their future under my administration. With all these swirling thoughts racing, I was forced to have a few from Lucca at Del’s Saloon.

Her good humor was encouraging. To wind down from the heavy campaigning, I met who would’ve been my Chief of Staff, the ultimate pop-off Ridge Thorneway. He maintains that never straying from objectivity is part of being a Basher. I told Ridge that the tanking economy makes it hard to remain objective. He empathized with that observation, then stated bluntly, “These hard times lead to heavy drinking.”

That night it did. Ridge later warned that you should never make fun of a drunken bar patron, the even one whose earlier judgment wavered on recklessness crossed with self-destructive blather. Now, as a has-been presidential candidate, I’m stuck making fun of passed out bar patrons at Del’s.